


Lady Morticia

by Not_A_Cousin



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types, Macbeth - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: #AddamsFamilyValentinesSpecial2021, Dark goth vibes, F/M, Gothic romance vibes, It'sdark, Lady Macbeth - Freeform, Macbeth - Freeform, Madness, Shakespeare, Sleep Walking, romance is not the focus, warning: descriptions of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29405397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_A_Cousin/pseuds/Not_A_Cousin
Summary: Ophelia plots to kill her father, and Morticia helps her. Follows the storyline of Lady Macbeth in Macbeth. Contains direct quotes from the play. Contains descriptions of blood.
Relationships: Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3
Collections: Addams Family Valentines 2021





	Lady Morticia

**Author's Note:**

> 2\. Morticia as Lady Macbeth, do with that as you please but it has to be dark and it has to be serious. No parody.

On a sunny morning, a woman dressed in black with skin as white as paper walked toward a mansion, colored with creams, browns, and whites in the style of a very tall colonial. Columns reaching up to the second story framed the entrance. For a mansion, it was quite dilapidated and dull looking. Paint peeled from the effects of the sun. Dirt lay around the columns and at the bottom of the front door. The woman walked up the steps delicately, the frayed ends of her long fitted black dress bobbing gently. She squinted in pain at the bright daylight that overwhelmed her. Her long black hair defiantly stayed dry despite the forcefulness of the sun. Morticia Addams extended an arm and hit the brass ring knocker against the door.

An old, snooty butler answered the door, his gray hair held stiffly in place and his tie bound so tightly around his neck it looked like it would strangle him. _I’ll have to remember to suggest that to Gomez later_ , Morticia thought.

“Hello, James,” Morticia said sweetly.

James looked at Morticia disapprovingly, as he had for most of her life. “Your fashion sense has not changed, Mrs. Addams.”

Morticia felt a twinge of annoyance that James had not used her name.

“Has Ophelia arrived yet?”

“Your sister is once again fashionably late.”

Morticia nodded and swooped past James into the foyer. She looked around at the large empty room curiously.

“They are in the drawing room, Mrs. Addams,” James explained.

“Thank you, James.”

_Two servants_ , Morticia thought as she made her way toward the drawing room. _And if nothing has changed they sleep right next to my parents’ chamber._

Morticia entered a drawing room characterized by the colors of brown and beige. The only decorative elements in the room were vases full of daisies. Morticia shuddered upon sight of them.

“Are you not going to greet your parents?” her father’s voice asked.

Morticia turned to see her parents sitting together on a beige, claw-footed couch. They sat a foot away from each other. Her mother, Hester Frump, sat with her back straight as a rack and her hands in her lap. Her hair was in a tight bun, and she wore a brown sweater and cream skirt that was only a slightly different shade from the couch. Her father, Nester Frump, was holding an open book in his hands, wearing a full brown suit with a green vest, with a monocle resting on his left eye.

“All our service in every point twice done and then done double were poor and single business to contend against those honors deep and broad wherewith our creators load our house,” Morticia replied with a smile.

“As it should be,” Nester replied.

_Knock knock…knocknocknocknock._

“That must be Ophelia,” Hester remarked.

_Slap! Clop Clop clop Clop._

Ophelia ran into the room, practically jumping in position next to Morticia. Her hair was a wild blonde mess covered in vines and daisies. She wore a well fitted burlap dress, and her feet bore heels she had no skill for. Ophelia eyes were wild with their usual excitement.

“How now, mother and father? Has the day served you well?”

***

Morticia walked out into the yard, glad to see the sun leaving for the day. Ophelia was pacing a few yards ahead of her. Morticia approached slowly, each step like walking across air.

“They have almost supped. Why have you left the kitchen?” Morticia asked Ophelia.

Ophelia turned toward Morticia. Fear filled her eyes that rested in black pillows.

“Hath they asked for me?” Ophelia wondered in a strained voice.

“Know you not they have?” Morticia responded accusingly. There was a silence like the moment before an explosion.

Ophelia spoke again in a quieter, nervous voice. “We will proceed no further in this business; they hath honored me of late, and I have bought golden opinions –”

“Art thou afeard to be the same in thine own act and valor as thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that which thou esteemest the ornament of life, and live a coward in thine own esteem,  
letting ‘I dare not’ wait upon ‘I would’,” Morticia mocked.

_How can a woman so strong be so cowardly?_ , Morticia thought.

“If we should fail –”

“We, fail?” Morticia replied incredulously. “But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we'll not fail. When Father is asleep – his two servants will I with wine and wassail so convince that memory, the warder of the brain, shall be a fume: when in swinish sleep their drenched natures lie as in a death, what cannot you and I perform upon the unguarded Nester? What not put upon his spongy butlers, who shall bear the guilt of our great quell?”

At this, Ophelia’s expression lightened. Her whole body came at ease and a sense of calm passed across her face.

“Will it not be received, when we have marked with blood those sleepy two of his own chamber and used their very daggers, that they have done't?” she whispered, like the grim reaper contemplating his list for the day. “I am settled and bend up each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show: false face must hide what the false heart doth know.”

Morticia nodded proudly. _They will never suspect a thing from me. And by tomorrow, you will inherit all that father has, and I will benefit from your success. The police with blame the servants when they find them drunk with the bloody daggers in their hands. Come, you spirits, make thick my blood. Stop up the access and passage to remorse,_ _that no compunctious visitings of nature_ _shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between_ _the effect and it!_

***

Morticia waited impatiently in the foyer, fidgeting with the plastic gloves around her hands. _The butlers are drunk, and I am buzzing with energy. How long is Ophelia going to take?_

Morticia heard a door close and after a moment, observed Ophelia walking down the stairs to the foyer, covered in blood. Her daisies were almost roses. In her gloved hands, she held a bloody dagger in each.

“I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?” Ophelia whispered.

“I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry,” Morticia replied.

Ophelia raised up her bloody hands along with their daggers and stared at them. “This is a sorry sight.”

Morticia rolled her eyes. “A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.”

“Mother woke as I killed father. I killed her too,” Ophelia explained wistfully.

Morticia felt her heart beating faster than it had ever beaten before.

“Oh, get some water, and wash this filthy witness from your hand,” Morticia commanded Ophelia hurriedly. “Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them and smear the sleepy grooms with blood.”

Ophelia shook her head madly. “I'll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done. Look on't again I dare not.”

Morticia sighed in exasperation.

“Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers,” Morticia ordered, almost ripping the daggers out of Ophelia’s hands. Morticia brought herself closer to her sister’s face. “The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil. If they do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal; for it must seem their guilt.”

Morticia turned around without glancing once more at her sister. She walked up the staircase and turned left. She walked swiftly but lightly toward two doors at the end of the hallway. She entered the door to the right of her, saving the door in front of her for later.

Before Morticia, she regarded two butlers deeply asleep in drunkenness, only one having successfully reached his bed. Morticia placed a dagger near each of them and put their hands on them to create more prints. She left the room and turned right toward her parents’ bedroom. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and entered.

_Oh_ , _it is so much more gruesome than I thought._

Somehow, the sight of her parents’ butchered bodies both delighted and horrified her. Blood from their necks and hearts made their white night gowns red.

_So red, they are no longer white._

As Morticia got closer to the bed, she realized there were more stabbed wounds on her mother from some kind of struggle.

_How did I not hear that?_

Morticia stared at her parents’ wounds.

_Do it now before you lose your metal!_

Morticia stuck her gloved hands in the gore of her parents’ shells. She instantly felt cold, despite the warmth still radiating from her parents’ bodies. She walked back to the servants’ room and spread the gore on them. They were so drunk they did not stir. She left the room and looked back down at her hands. She quickly ripped the gloves off, only to find her arms and hands still covered in blood.

_So red, they are no longer white._

She raised her head as she descended the stairway to see Ophelia who was still bloodied but had taken off her gloves. Morticia showed Ophelia her hands.

“My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white,” Morticia proclaimed. But she knew she was being deceitful. For even then, her heart felt as if it had been carved out of her chest as well. Her whole body ached, and her head spun. The sight and smell of blood was suffocating.

***

_Snip snip._

Morticia cut the rosebuds from their stems methodically in her garden.

_So red, so red. Why is it so red? Nought’s had, all’s spent,_ _where our desire is got without content:_ _‘tis safer to be that which we destroy_ _than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy._

The phone in the garden rang suddenly, causing Morticia to drop a thorny stem. She grabbed the phone.

“Hello, Addams residence.”

“Morticia,” breathed Ophelia.

Morticia looked around to see if Gomez or Thing were about the garden. Finding no one, she returned her attention to the disembodied voice.

“Uncle Fester is staying with you, isn’t he?” Ophelia asked.

“Yes.”

“I was told by a seer he and his descendants would take my inheritance. Let your remembrance apply to Fester: present him eminence, both with eye and tongue. Unsafe the while, that we must lave our honours in these flattering streams, and make our faces vizards to our hearts, disguising what they are.”

Morticia for the first time felt afraid of Ophelia, her insides filling with ice that made her shudder.

“You must leave this,” Morticia insisted.

“Oh, full of scorpions is my mind, sister! Thou knowest that Fester, and his purpose, lives.”

“What’s to be done?” Morticia asked, a sense of horror washing over her.

“Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, till thou applaud the deed,” Ophelia instructed Morticia in a sweet and even voice. “Thou marvelest at my words: but hold thee still. Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.”

The line cut out.

***

Gomez drew close behind his wife, wrapping his arms around her waist. Morticia was washing her hands again.

“They’re clean, mi amor,” Gomez told her gently.

Morticia only shook her head. Gomez sighed and kissed her on the shoulder gently.

“I know it’s been hard on you. First Fester died, and now news that Ophelia might have orchestrated the murder of that police officer’s whole family.”

Gomez moved Morticia’s hair to be more neatly situated. Morticia did not respond, scrubbing her hands harder.

“Darling, they’re clean,” Gomez insisted.

“There’s a spot left,” Morticia mourned. “There’s red still there.”

“That’s your own blood, Tish.”

_They are supposed to white, why are they red? There’s still a spot, it has to come out._

Morticia felt Gomez’s hands firmly grasp her wrists and force them away from the water. Morticia gasped in shock. Gomez wrapped his arms around her arms and waist and began to drag her out of the bathroom.

“There’s still a spot. They’re not clean,” Morticia begged, a tear rolling down her eye.

“Washing them won’t make you feel better, cara mia,” Gomez replied solemnly, finally dragging her out the door.

***

Gomez stood in the dark hallway in his house. Dr. Johnson, who he had hired, was standing adjacent to him. The majority of the family rested downstairs. Only the three of them remained on the second floor.

Dr. Johnson turned to Gomez and whispered, “I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?”

Gomez glared at the doctor. “Since Ophelia went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her night gown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon't, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed. Yet all this while in a most fast sleep.”

Dr. Johnson tilted his head in curiosity. “In this slumbery agitation, besides her  
walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?”

Gomez’s icy stare became icier, and his exterior hardened. “That, sir, which I will not report after her.”

“You may to me, and 'tis most meet you should.”

“Neither to you nor anyone; having no witness to confirm my speech,” Gomez spat back.

Whatever bitter reply Dr. Johnson was preparing was interrupted by the sound of an opening door. Both men turned their attention to the sound. Out from behind the door came Morticia, a lit black candle in hand. She walked with precision, but her mind was asleep in nightmares.

“Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close,” Gomez whispered, pulling Dr. Johnson deeper into the darkness with him.

“How came she by that light?” Dr. Johnson wondered.

“Why, it stood by her. She has light by her continually.”

Morticia put the candle on the ground, but there was still enough light to see her. She began rubbing her hands together, at times scrubbing one with the other’s nails. Her hands were coarse and covered in cuts from dryness.

“What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands,” Dr. Johnson pointed out.

Gomez wondered why he bothered hiring a doctor considering this one appeared to think he was an idiot.

“It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour,” Gomez recalled mournfully.

Morticia’s sleeping mind found something her hand.

“Yet here’s a spot,” she cried out.

“Hark! She speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly,” Dr. Johnson declared, taking out a small notepad and a pen.

Gomez looked at the doctor with the utmost disdain and bewilderment. He wondered how bad Dr. Johnson’s memory had to be for him to have to write down what his wife said.

Morticia was now rubbing and scratching her left hand violently.

“Out, damned spot! out, I say!” Morticia shouted, her voice shaken with fear and pain. “One: two: why, then, 'tis time to do't – Hell is murky! – Fie, sister, fie! A fighter, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it when none can call our power to account?” Morticia’s voice filled with more desperation. “Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him.”

Dr. Johnson looked at Gomez, shocked and afraid. “Do you mark that?”

Gomez did not reply in word or expression but turned his attention back to his suffering wife. Morticia was talking to the air and breathing heavily.

“The cop of Fife had a wife: where is she now? – What, will these hands ne'er be clean? –No more of that, sister, no more of that: you mar all with this starting.”

“Go to, go to; we have known what we should not,” Dr. Johnson declared to Gomez, frightened.

Gomez knew now choosing this doctor was a mistake. Dr. Johnson could not handle implication in a murder as well as Gomez could.

“She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known,” Gomez replied, trying to calm the doctor down.

Morticia stopped scrubbing her hands. She stared at them. Then, out from her chest came a crazed giggle that quickly turned into a sob of anguish.

“Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little  
hand. Oh, oh, oh!” Morticia exclaimed in agony, placing her face in her hands.

“What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged,” Dr. Johnson interpreted optimistically.

“Pray God it be, sir,” Gomez proclaimed gravely.

“This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds,” Dr. Johnson explained, attempting to comfort Gomez.

Gomez had to hold himself back from clocking the aggravating man right there. He did not care for his wife’s innocence, only her health. It seemed he had wasted two nights on this useless excuse for a doctor.

Morticia removed her hands from her face and began rubbing them together again, sandpaper against sandpaper.

“Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so scared – I tell you yet again, Fester's buried; he cannot come out on's grave.”

“Even so?” Dr. Johnson gasped.

“To bed, to bed!” Morticia called out into the darkness. “There's knocking at the gate:  
come, come, come, come, give me your hand.” Morticia stretched out her hand. “What's done cannot be undone – To bed, to bed, to bed!”

Morticia hurried over to the bedroom door, reentering and disappearing out of sight. The black candle remained, its black wax dripping slowly down its sides. Gomez took one step forward before Dr. Johnson spoke up.

“Will she now go to bed?”

Gomez turned to face the doctor. “Directly.”

Gomez then grabbed Dr. Johnson by the collar and brought him close to his face, so that the doctor could see the murderous intent in Gomez’s eyes.

“Good night, _good doctor_ ,” Gomez mocked and grabbed the notepad out of the terrified doctor’s hand. After being released, Dr. Johnson hurriedly left.

Gomez tore a page from Dr. Johnson’s notebook and place it on top of the candle flame. The paper caught fire and burned to ash in Gomez’s hand. He ripped out another page.

***

_Out, out spot! So red, they are no longer white. Will these hands never be clean?_

**Exeunt**   
  



End file.
